Peripeteia
by S.J.Mooney
Summary: Vilkas had understood the risk when he'd accepted the ring from that foul man in the Falkreath Jail – that man, Sinding, who bore the same blood as he; the same curse. But he was not expecting this. He did not anticipate Hircine's Ring to have a mind of its own. Oneshot, Rough Draft. Complete.


[Please note: I've been writing for a long time, but this is my first transformation piece. It is a rough draft, and a small part of a bigger work that I will be posting soon but since it is my first fic of this nature, I posted this important bit in search of constructive criticism, etc. Thank you!)

He had never transformed against his will before – save that first moon, all those years ago. Vilkas had understood the risk when he'd accepted the ring from that foul man in the Falkreath Jail – that man, Sinding, who bore the same blood as he; the same curse. But he was not expecting this. He did not anticipate Hircine's Ring to have a mind of its own.

He'd tried to maintain some semblance of control even with the blasted thing on – steadying his emotions, quelling the panicked heartbeat before the beast he locked up deep within its cage of flesh took advantage of those weaknesses to find a way to escape. But with the Ring there was no such method, no such technique that could keep the Wolf imprisoned.

Not any longer.

The air was hot and thick, so pregnant with anticipation that it nearly strangled him. Vilkas found himself gasping for air. Sweat poured down his body in waves as he struggled futilely against the monster consuming him from within. But there came a sudden spasm between his shoulder blades, and he knew then he'd lost the battle.

His knees were the first to betray him, giving out under his weight and sending him plummeting to earth. Sweaty palms smashed into the cool soil, holding Vilkas upright long enough for his stomach to discharge his latest meal. His toes curled and his fingers clutched the dirt as his face contorted into a demonic grimace at the pain exploding behind his ribs. Vilkas had done this enough times before to know what it meant: he was having a heart attack.

For a brief moment, the heart was forced to stop in order to accommodate the Change as it swelled to more than twice its normal size to provide adequate bloodflow to his expanding body. The heart was followed by the lungs, and as he writhed on the ground like a wounded animal he began to hear the snaps of sinew and the crack of bone as his ribs restructured to fit their new form.

He'd been lucky the changes had taken him in the night – most of his armor had been tucked away while he slept, and soon he would feel the unholy snap of his breastplate severing from what was left. But the Wolf Armor worn by the Circle Members had been designed to deal properly with the transformations they underwent, whether the smith knew it or not.

Vilkas clenched his teeth, white-knucked hands suddenly becoming fountains of blood as claws pushed through the skin below his fingernails and into the darkening skin of his palms. Black hairs began sprouting across his lengthening forearms, spreading like wildfire with an unbearable itch up over his back and towards his nether regions where a rough tail protracted and bent.

His muscles writhed like snakes under his skin as the changes progressed. Pain coursed up and down his legs as his ankles stretched and cracked in ways they had never been designed to, forcing his lower limbs into the digitigrade structure of the canine. A dark muzzle errupted into his field of vision, human teeth falling to the ground like distant memories into a puddle of blood and bile, but somehow the Companion was not concerned. The wind rushed powerfully through his new ears and he unconsciously flexed them backwards.

The transformation was nearing completion, and the pain had slowly begun to recede. Vilkas could hear it now, more powerful than he ever remembered: the Wolf within arose from the darkness.

_Into the forests, _it urged. _Run. Run! RUN!_

As if on cue, the heavy scent of blood coursed its way pleasantly through his nose. Part of him hated himself for salivating, but that silly notion was quickly being drowned out by the primal urges of the Beast. The scent on the air was so captivating, the taste so bracing…

There was nothing else now: he needed to hunt. The Wolf snapped its head back, releasing a slow, mournful howl deep into the night before leaping into the blackness of the forest.

The soulkeeper that held the Wolf at bay was trapped beneath his fur now, as he had been beneath the skin for so long. Now, he would rage across the land and gorge himself on blood until that man was little more than primitive memory.

Soon, it would be as though he had never been a man at all.


End file.
